


His Rose

by LizzyLovegood



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzyLovegood/pseuds/LizzyLovegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time there was a rose who lived in the garden of a large and wealthy kingdom. But she yearned for adventures beyond the garden gate. A Doctor and Rose fairytale AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've had this one on the back burner for quite a while but I've finally finished it! And there's even a little plot! Love it or hate it, comment and let me know!
> 
> Happy Easter to you all as well. :)

Once upon a time, there was a rose. She lived in the garden of a large and wealthy kingdom with all of her friends and family. The garden was well-kept and it was a very popular place to go. No one was allowed to the pick the flowers without express permission from the king but every day, the rose would watch children play hide-and-seek behind the branches and bushes and couples stroll hand-in-hand along the path. The rose wondered where they went and what they did. Of course there were stories she picked up from people who came to the garden but that wasn’t the same. She yearned for a life beyond the garden gate.

The rose’s friends told her not to be silly.

“You have bright red petals and a long, straight stem. If you were ever picked, you would only wilt in some vase,” said one.

“It’s the same with humans,” another reminded her, scathingly. “You see the old couples that come in here. All wrinkled and they’ve gone to fat. As long as we stay in this garden, we’ll be beautiful forever. The _gardener_ makes sure of that.” She hissed the name like it was an insult which the rose thought was a bit unfair considering he was the person keeping them alive.

The gardener had a special gift to speak to plants and so had been hired by the king some years ago to tend the gardens. He was a middle-aged man with large ears and a gruff way about him that made most flowers and people steer clear but the rose thought him kind for all that. While her friends disdained him, the rose noticed how he helped a little boy who skinned his knee on the walkway or passed along vegetable seedlings to a harried-looking mother with another baby on the way. She developed a habit of speaking to the gardener whenever he stopped by to water her or till the soil and he developed the same habit of stopping by to speak to her for longer and longer each day.

It was from the gardener that the rose heard most of her stories of life in the kingdom. The rose expected him to laugh when she revealed her dreams of going beyond the garden gate but the gardener was all too eager to regale her with stories of the goings-on in the city. Every day, he would arrive with new stories. How the summer festival had gone and who had won first place in the pie-baking and pie-eating contests. Which couples were betrothed and who was expecting a baby. When the king’s son, the prince, would take the crown and which kingdoms were vying to place their daughter’s hand in his.

The gardener told her about himself, too. The rose knew that he used to be a soldier and had come back, many victories under his belt, to marry his childhood sweetheart. She knew that they had been in love and had walked hand-in-hand through this garden many times, joined by their three children as the years passed. She knew that his wife and children had died except for his eldest son who had escaped the kingdom the second he turned eighteen to accomplish far more important things than being a gardener’s apprentice.

“You _are_ important,” said the rose angrily. “What could he be doing out there that’s so much better, anyway?”

The gardener sighed. “It was enemies of mine who killed my wife and children,” he explained. “My son thinks it’s my fault for what happened to them. He went away to school to become a doctor. He hopes by saving lives he can make up for my mistakes.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” the rose told him. This wasn’t necessarily the truth but all the rose knew was she couldn’t stand seeing the gardener so sad. She wanted to make him smile but there were only so many jokes and anecdotes at her disposal, even less that she hadn’t heard from the gardener himself.

“That’s very nice of you to say, Rose.” The gardener flashed her a tiny smile and finished patting the soil around her stem. But the rose could tell he didn’t believe her.

Things went on as normal till one day, several dignitaries came to visit the palace. According to the gardener, they hailed from a neighboring kingdom even wealthier than this one and the king was eager to impress them. On the afternoon of their last day in the city, the king brought the noblemen out to his gardens.

“Beautiful,” said one, looking awestruck.

“Quite impressive,” added the second, wide-eyed.

“I’ve seen better,” finished the third, shrugging.

“Thank you very much,” said the king, chest puffed out with pride, pointedly ignoring the third man. “Please, feel free to take whatever you would like. Take them home to the queen and princess.” He chuckled. “I know women do like their pretty things.”

“The princess is engaged to be married,” said the third man.

“Ah.” The king blanched but recovered quickly, snapping his fingers. “Gardener!”

“Your Majesty?”

“Take your shears. Clip these roses for us.” Beside the rose, her friends shivered, frightened of being taken out of the garden. Unexpectedly, the rose found herself a bit nervous, too. She didn’t want to leave the gardener behind.

“How many roses, Your Majesty?” asked the gardener.

“Oh, the whole thing should do.” The king waved an airy hand. “These fine gentlemen can take them home to their liege who may have the final word on their superiority.” He bobbed his head at the third man in a token gesture of respect.

“Your Majesty, if I may,” interjected the gardener, “these fine gentlemen’s kingdom lies many days’ travel away across the ocean. By the time they reach their destination, the roses will have wilted. That will certainly not present our kingdom in the best light.”

“Come now, come now.” The king forced a smile which, even to the rose, looked more like a snarl. “Our roses are of hardier constitution than that, I’m sure.”

“We _do_ have a magic to preserve all manner of flora onboard our ship,” said the first man, taking pity on the gardener, “if that would put your mind at ease.”

Apparently it did not. Again, the gardener refused the king’s order to present the roses to the noblemen. “Your Majesty, these flowers are not yet ready to be cut. Perhaps I could direct you to--”

“No!” shouted the king. “You cannot! I want these roses and these roses alone!” He reached for the shears and was forced to tug them from the gardener’s tight grip. “And if you will not obey my orders, I will find someone who will.” He snapped his fingers, this time for his guards, and two soldiers arrived to drag the gardener away.

More than anything, the rose wanted to call after her friend, to help him. But in the end she was only a rose. All she could do was watch as he was led out the garden gate.

The rose never saw the gardener again.

Briefly, she entertained the notion that the gardener had gotten off with a fine or some jail time, that he would be released by the time she and her friends and family reached this distant shore. But in her heart of hearts, the rose knew this wasn’t true. She had heard enough stories to know that no one risked the king’s ire. As if that weren’t enough, the gardener had embarrassed him.

All to protect the rose.

The rose didn’t know how many days the journey took to this distant kingdom. All she knew was she cried every single one of them. Water droplets streamed down her bright red petals, around and around her long straight stem, to drip down the sides of the ugly vase that was her new home.

“It’ll be alright,” the rose’s friends tried to console her, in between their own weeping, “at least we’re together.” They thought she was merely homesick, and the rose didn’t see fit to disillusion them. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Finally, they arrived in the new kingdom. The roses were unloaded with all the other goods the king had sent along to win their affection - gold and jewels, livestock and prize-winning pies - and presented to the king, queen, and princess.

“Roses? He wants an alliance and he sends us _roses_?” scoffed the king. He stood from his throne and plucked a few petals from those flowers nearest, scattering them across the marble floor. The rose remained whole but her friends whimpered, staring down at their strewn petals.

“Y-yes, my liege,” stuttered the page, the flowers tilting in his trembling hands.

“How pathetic.” Joining her husband next to the terrified serving boy, the queen picked up a rose, sniffed it, wrinkled her nose, and set it back down. Then, to the page, “Don’t stand there like an idiot. Put them anywhere.”

Nodding and stuttering unintelligibly, the boy dropped the roses at her feet.

“Not _there_ ! _Any_ where!”

“Here,” said the princess, “I’ll take some,” and the rose was scooped up in her arms and carried from the room. The princess tossed a remark over her shoulder that the rose couldn’t hear over the rustling of skirts but was enough to make the queen gasp.

Up stairs and down passageways they went, enough to make the rose dizzy till the princess flung open the door to an enormous bedchamber. Setting the roses down in a purple vase with vines painted up the sides, the princess flounced with a huff onto her bed.

Some time later, someone knocked on the door, calling for the princess. She threw a puffy purple pillow at the door and the voice stopped. Between worried murmurs, the rose’s friends drifted off into a restive sleep but the rose stayed awake, watching the princess. Her brazenness here, in the royal court, reminded her a bit of the gardener. It made her feel safer than she had in awhile.

That night, the rose had a strange dream. She wasn’t a rose anymore, she was a woman. Blonde hair brushed her bare shoulders and was dressed in a red gown that looked like something a princess would wear. The rose ran a hand over the bodice of the dress, reveling in the feeling of the velvety fabric under her new fingertips. She started at the sound of her name.

“Rose.”

“Here,” she said, “I’m here.” She spun around, smiling a bit as the skirt flared around her, but saw no one. “Who’s there?”

“Me,” said the voice. A woman stepped out of what had been thin air a second before. If the rose were a princess, this woman would be the queen. Even in the simple blue dress, she seemed to radiate power. When the woman’s eyes met the rose’s, she could see they were gold.

“My name is Idris,” said the beautiful woman. “I am the gardener’s wife.”

The rose gasped. “Oh!” She tried to curtsey but stumbled over her two new feet. She extended her hand to shake but was trembling too badly to return Idris’ gentle squeeze.

“How - how is he?”

“He is happy.” Idris smiled a sad smile. “But he misses you.”

“ _Me_? But I’m just--”

“You were his friend,” said Idris. “You were there for him when I could not be. Thank you for that, Rose.”

The rose could feel her cheeks burning and had a brief moment of longing for her bright red petals. “His son could have,” she argued feebly.

“Yes,” agreed Idris, “he could have. My son has always been more afraid of what is behind him than what lies ahead. And he regrets it, I know. He is engaged to marry a woman he does not love under threat of his father’s assassination.”

“Who?” asked the rose.

“The princess.”

“And the princess doesn’t love him either?”

Idris arched an eyebrow. “He was the one who knocked at the door. Did it seem so to you?”

“But - but his father, your husband . . . doesn’t your son know . . .”

Idris inclined her head. “My son is a world-renowned physician but the kingdom of Skaro wants him for their own. They have kept his father’s death a secret from him. He is little more than a pampered hostage while the world around him suffers, suffering which he could prevent. That is why I am here, Rose. I need you to help him.”

“What can I do?” asked the rose. “I’m just--”

“You are _just_ nothing,” interrupted Idris, more sharply than last time. “You knew there was more to life than that garden and now I will prove it to you. I will make you human, Rose.”

“Wh-what? You can--”

“Yes,” said Idris. “When you wake, you will be a lady, much as you appear now. Once that happens, you are free to leave this kingdom, to make a life for yourself however you so choose. I only ask one thing, if you can find it in your heart. Find my son, tell him of his father’s passing. Be a friend to him in this small way as you were to the gardener.”

“I will,” the rose promised. She tried not to sound too reluctant. Despite Idris’ explanation, this doctor still sounded like a coward to her.

Idris smiled, the air around them almost _humm_ ing with satisfaction, though it must have been the rose’s imagination. “Thank you, Rose,” and now those golden eyes grew tender, “you both deserve to be happy.”

Before the rose could ask what _that_ meant her eyes flew open, staring up at the canopy of the princess’s plush four-poster bed. Save for the roses resting in that same purple vase, she was alone. Mid-morning light streamed through the half-open window. Perhaps the princess was at breakfast with her parents and fiance?

No sooner had she reached this conclusion than the door was flung open and the princess stormed into the room. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was falling out of its’ elaborate bun.

“Donna!” called a voice from down the hall, the same voice from last night, but she slammed the door against it. Breathing hard, she turned on her heel to fling herself onto the bed again but pulled up short, staring.

“Who the hell are you?” she snapped.

“Um . . . Rose?”

“Is that a question? Are you or aren’t you?”

“I - I am,” said Rose, more firmly.

“Just Rose?” asked the princess. She sounded suspicious. “You’re not a lady or a dame or anything?”

“Um, no. Just Rose.”

“Whatever. If you’re _just_ Rose, I’m _just_ Donna,” said the princess. “Now, if you’ll excuse me--” And she flopped atop the mattress without another word, burying her face in the dozen throw pillows littered there.

Rose shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “A-are you alright?”

“No,” said Donna. Her voice was thick, like a sob or a shout was creeping its’ way up her throat. “No, I’m not. I’m having a bloody awful day, to be honest. A bloody awful _six months_. So why don’t you go give that information to my father,” she scoffed, “as if he doesn’t already know.”

“I’m not spying on you,” said Rose. “I just got here last night, actually. I’m not really sure where I’m supposed to go.”

“And you thought my bedchamber the best place?” Donna rolled her eyes but she only seemed annoyed now, not angry. “Did you come from Gallifrey? A ship arrived from there yesterday.”

“Yes,” said Rose before she could stop herself. Part of her wanted to take it back. It would have been better to lie so word didn’t get back to king that someone besides his noblemen had arrived from his soon-to-be son-in-law’s homeland. But Rose trusted Donna, so she told her the truth - a condensed version of the truth, anyway where she had been a human her whole life and not transformed into one half an hour ago by the dead mother of her new friend’s fiance whose name was John.

“I just call him Doctor,” said Donna. “He’s always so serious. Whenever he’s not acting all stiff and proper, his head’s stuck in a book.”

Rose didn’t tell her about the gardener’s death only that a strange woman had suggested she find him after losing her last friend back home to the king of Gallifrey’s cruelty. That was a message meant for John alone. However he chose to act on it, she wouldn’t get Donna in trouble in the process.

This was not a decision left up to Rose. Just like her, Donna’s heart was set on adventure. She pulled Rose with her up stairs and down passageways into a small, dimly-lit room. Old, dusty books sat crammed on rotting, dustier shelves and there were a few uncomfortable-looking chairs dotted beside them. In one of these, a man sat reading.

“Doctor,” Donna waved a hand in front of the man’s face, “snap out of it.”

He didn’t even glance up from his book. “What _now_ , Donna?”

“Oi! Don’t be rude!”

“ _I’m_ not the one who pitched a fit over centerpieces.” Setting his book and dark-framed spectacles aside with a sigh, John rubbed tiredly at his temples.

“Oh, grow a backbone. Just tell Mother you hate her taste, she’s already done her worst.” John just flipped another page. “And look up from that bloody book! You’re ignoring our guest.”

Setting his book and dark-framed spectacles aside with a sigh, John rubbed tiredly at his temples. “What guest?”

“Dame Rose, you numpty,” Donna scolded as if Rose’s were a name the world should know. She added, in her most princessly voice, “Dame Rose, Sir John of Skaro. Sir John, Dame Rose of Gallifrey.”

“Gallifrey?” John lurched to his feet, nearly tripping over them in his haste. When he straightened to his full height, much taller than he’d looked hunched over in that splintery chair, his mop of messy brown hair brushed a hanging candelabra.

“Gallifrey,” he said again, sounding awestruck. “That’s where you’re from?”

“Yes,” said Rose. “Do you know of it?”

“Yes,” he replied. Lifting her hand in his, he pressed a brief kiss to her knuckles. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dame Rose.”

Rose had seen this played out between lords and ladies time and again. She curtseyed, managing not to fall flat on her face this time. “And I yours, Sir John.”

The day was a flurry of activity. At John’s invitation, Rose and a reluctant Donna took a stroll through the enormous palace and even vaster grounds. Thankfully, they did not run into the king and queen on this tour. Rose doubted they would take kindly to seeing John’s arm linked through hers as he compared the likeness of one departed monarch to a badger or picked her a flower from the garden - not nearly as impressive as Rose’s own, no matter what the queen said. But Rose still tucked the iris behind her ear, hoping she wasn’t blushing too badly and wishing again for her petals.

John was more like his father than she’d thought. He was brusque but was a match for Donna and the two exchanged smiles and funny faces in rare moments. If they hadn’t been engaged, Rose thought they might have been friends. Several times a serving maid or page pointed them down the right corridor - although he claimed to be a navigational expert - John always made sure to thank them and hand them a coin or two from the inner pocket of his worn brown jacket. He snuck a vial of green liquid to one of the kitchen staff with a promise that it would help her daughter’s cough. Idris might have called John a pampered hostage but he was still doing what he could here.

Mid-afternoon, Donna was called away at her mother’s behest for further discussion of centerpieces. Rose hoped to seize the chance to tell John the news of his father - maybe to even help him escape - but every time she brought up Gallifrey, he would invariably try to change the subject. He always succeeded. Unlike the gardener, John didn’t need to be urged to talk but could spout off several-dozen factoids about some rare bird or foreign country in one breath. His deliberate obtuseness irritated Rose all over again. As the night grew later, she refused John’s offer to direct her to one of the guest suites, not even caring if she got lost.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, shrugging off his concerned queries.

“Oh, I insist,” said John. Relinking her arm firmly with his, he led the way out of the chill night and into a bedchamber decorated in blue and gold. Rose thought it might be his, a certainty that only grew as he shut the door behind them.

“Who are you?” he demanded and his voice didn’t sound nearly as friendly as it had earlier.

“Wh-what? I’m Rose, Donna told you. Dame Rose of--”

“No,” John snapped. “I grew up in Gallifrey. My father was the royal gardener. I never saw anyone like you around the palace. I would have remembered. So tell me, _Rose_ , who are you?”

“I--”

“It’s not a difficult question! Who hired you? Who are you reporting to? Are you an informer for the king? Are you a whore meant to test my fidelity to my fiancee? What is your _purpose_?”

Rose wanted to answer him, but she didn’t know what to say or where to start. Every bit of her story was so unbelievable that it would make John imagine worse than his accusations. In the least trembly voice she could muster, she said, “Your mother sent me.”

This didn’t help. If possible, John’s expression hardened still further. “My mother is dead.”

“I know,” said Rose, “she came to me last night, in a dream. She told me that you were trapped here, that I had to tell you . . .”

“Tell me what?”

“My journey here wasn’t by choice either,” Rose explained. “I was forced aboard the king’s ship weeks ago, heartbroken after losing my best friend,” she gulped, “your father. He was executed for trying to protect me.”

Rose couldn’t look at John but she could feel him looking at her, eyes boring into her bowed head. She expected him to ask why he should believe her or for proof of some sort. She expected him to blame her for being the reason behind his father’s sacrifice, _wanted_ him to blame her. Instead, John gave her as unexpected an answer as she had given him.

“Are they happy?”

“Yes,” said Rose without hesitation. “And they think you deserve to be happy, too.”

John sank into a chair, covering his face with his hands and shaking it back and forth. He went from one extreme to the other, Rose thought, there was no in-between.

“You’re free now,” she said, even though it shouldn’t need explaining. “The king can’t hold your father’s death over you any longer. You don’t have to marry Donna. You can travel the world and help people like you’ve always wanted to.”

“I couldn’t even help my own _family_ , Rose,” said John. While he had uncovered his face slightly his words were still muffled and Rose had to strain to catch them. “I hated my life in Gallifrey, it bored me. I wanted something greater. I was too wrapped up in my own head to protect my mother and siblings when they needed me. I ran from my father because I was afraid he would blame me. I care only for myself, that’s the opposite of what anyone would want in a doctor.”

“I would,” argued Rose. “I saw you today with the servants - the cook, too. You’re miserable here but you still go out of your way to help people even though you might get in trouble for it. That’s not what bad people do, John. Donna calls you _Doctor_ for a reason.”

“To be a thorn in my side,” he grumbled. A second later a loud “Oi!” sounded from outside the door. When Rose opened it, she was unsurprised to find herself nose-to-nose with the disgruntled-looking princess. Even in her nightshift, she managed to look intimidating.

“How much did you hear?” asked John.

“Enough.” Donna’s scowl turned into a wide smile. “Let’s get you two the hell out of here.”

Of course, this was easier said than done. There were guards manning the palace gates around the clock and, with the wedding so close, various servants were always asking John or Donna for their opinions on the tiniest of details. They would then report this decision back to the queen who would decree the exact opposite.

“The entire palace hates my parents,” said Donna. “I’m sure they’d help.”

“That could work,” John mused. “It’s just a matter of finding the ones who wouldn’t rat us out.”

“If I tell them not to, they won’t.”

“You’re not queen yet, Donna. People are afraid of who’s in power. It’s human nature.”

“Not everyone’s _you_ , Doctor.”

“Hey,” said Rose, stepping in between them, “we all want out but there’s no need for insults. On either of your parts,” she added, when John made to retort. “I like your plan Donna, but this is going to be risky so we need to _work together_. Agreed?”

John and Donna both nodded.

A bit surprised at their quick acquiescence, Rose nodded to herself for a moment. “Well, that’s that. Now, why don’t we--” She was cut off as her mouth stretched wide in a yawn.

“--continue this in the morning?” suggested Donna. “The wedding guests aren’t arriving for another week and my father might get suspicious if you stay in a guest room, but . . .”

“You can sleep here,” John volunteered, then blushed as bright as Rose must have earlier. “If you want, that is . . . I don’t mind a kip on the couch.”

“Oh,” said Rose, “no, that’s alright, John. I’ll stay with Donna.” The look on Donna’s face was almost pitying, Rose thought, but she remained stubbornly close-mouthed on the subject for the rest of the night.

It took several days, several more secret meetings, and several dozen disagreements between John and Donna but they eventually settled on making their escape the night before the royal wedding, in a week’s time. Servants would be bustling in and out all day and the palace would be full to bursting with guests, some of whom weren’t even sure what the bride or groom looked like.

“We can always distract them, too,” said Donna. “You know, knock over the cake--”

“Oh, please don’t,” begged the cook who they had recruited. “I spent days decorating it.” It would be her responsibility to slip a sleeping draft into the drinks she would serve to the guards at the palace gate.

“--or burn the wedding dress.”

“Your Highness, begging your pardon, but . . . the queen would have me whipped for that,” said the laundress shyly. Her job would be to hide John and Rose under a pile of dirty clothes.

“Even if it’s as ugly as that one?”

The laundress’ lips quirked in a tiny smile. “Even if, Your Highness.”

Donna rolled her eyes. “Oh, do I have some changes to make around here. Guess I’m stuck throwing a tantrum then. No one can punish me for that. _I’m_ the bride.”

It wasn’t a foolproof plan but, if they succeeded, the payoff would be tremendous. While the palace and grounds were beautiful, they became as suffocating as the garden after a while. Rose didn’t know how John had stood a week here, let alone three years.

“I had motivation,” said John shortly.

“You mean blackmail,” said Rose. “The king would have had your father killed.”

Busy poring over a map of the palace, John only shrugged. It was the night before the night before the wedding and, while Donna had been called away for a final dress fitting, Rose and John were reviewing every shortcut and secret passageway in case of pursuit. Rose knew this was important but she also knew John was using the map as a means of avoiding the subject.

“Doctor?” She only used his nickname whenever she had something serious to discuss and John always responded to it.

“I could have done something,” he said. “When we were boys, the prince of Gallifrey and I were . . . _friends_ , I suppose you could say. I’ve heard good things about him since. If I had written him about it, he might have been able to protect my father. And I didn’t. I considered this place my penance, I suppose.”

“But in the end it was the king of Gallifrey that had him . . .” Rose cut herself off. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said John. “One’s as bad as the other, I suppose. From what you’ve said, it happened too fast for anyone to do anything to prevent it. Jack must have thought me dead or else he would have sent word.”

Over the past few days, John had come to terms with his father’s death - an absurdly fast time, it seemed to Rose - and spoke so emotionlessly about it now that she reached forward to capture his chin in her hand before he could look down again.

“There was nothing you could have done either, Doctor. If you’d sent the letter it might have been intercepted by the king of Skaro and would have been killed even sooner.”

“And then he would never have met you.” John’s eyes had softened and he reached out to cup her cheek in his own palm. “And you would never have come to find me.”

Rose’s breaths were coming quicker. She patted John’s hand, hoping he didn’t notice how it trembled or how clammy her skin suddenly was. John only leaned in closer, smiling; she could see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and every freckle that spotted his cheeks and nose. It was a very handsome face and she desperately didn’t want to vomit all over it which she felt she might do any moment now. Maybe if she went to lie down, she’d feel better.

“I’ll see you later.” Rose ducked away from his touch and headed towards the door, hand at the ready to clamp over her mouth.

“Rose - Rose, wait.” Again, John almost tripped over his own feet as he stood. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I just--”

“No, it’s alright,” Rose called over her shoulder. “Really, I’m just not feeling well. I’ll see you in the morning. I promised the laundress I’d be there by . . .”

Rose never finished her sentence as she ran face-first into a very large man. It took her a second to recognize him as the king. A royal robe was thrown over a pair of pajamas that showed his large belly and no crown rested on his balding head. But he was still surrounded by guards. Two of them had a tight grip on a scared-looking girl that Rose recognized as one of the seamstress’s apprentices but the rest had sharp swords pointed straight at Rose and John who had hurried to her side and now angled himself in front of her.

“Well, well, John,” said the king. “I thought you would wait until after the wedding to take a mistress.”

John and Rose exchanged glances. If John could convince the king that Rose was nothing more than that, then their plan could still move forward. “Father, I - I couldn’t help . . .” he started.

The king backhanded John across the face, hard enough he would have fallen if Rose wasn’t there to catch his elbow. “Wasn’t I good to you, boy? Didn’t I give you everything you could ever want here? My daughter? Servants to care for your every whim? This library? And in repayment, you _lie_ to me? I know the whole story! _She_ told me!” He thrust a hand in the direction of the quivering apprentice who had started to cry.

“I don’t love your daughter as a husband should.” One hand held to his swollen eye, John’s words were still heard quite clearly. “You treat your servants and your _library_ , if that’s what you’d like to call it, awfully. I never wanted this life but you kept me here, against my will. Then I met Rose. She didn’t just bring news that you had lost your hold over me, she made me believe in myself again. I’m not afraid anymore, I’m happy, and if you have any heart at all you will let us go.”

The king didn’t even pretend to consider. “And suppose we have your precious Rose executed for treason instead?” he said. “Right before the wedding ceremony, I think.”

“You’ll have to go through me first,” John challenged. He pushed Rose further behind him. Rose pushed back. She wouldn’t let anyone else die for her.

“John, no!” Before he could stop her, Rose had flung herself to kneel in front of the king and his assembly of guards. “Take me. Just don’t hurt him.”

The king laughed. His laugh was one of the scariest things of all. “Would you look at that? Stupid and brave is never a good combination, you know. I think you’re better off with Donna.” He turned to Rose. Do you think I really would have killed my daughter’s fiance?”

“I’m just a gardener’s son,” John argued. He lunged forward to grab Rose but found himself surrounded by guards, his arms pinned behind him. The point of a sword rested right under his chin.

“Do you really think I’m interested in your father’s heritage?” The king laughed again. “He was nothing but a gardener.”

“He _wasn’t_ just a--” Rose snarled. This time, the king smacked her and she fell backwards, striking her head on the hard wooden floor, dirt and dust doing nothing to cushion the blow.

“Don’t you touch her!” John struggled against his captors but to no avail and the king went on as if neither of them had spoken.

“It’s your _mother_ who was the important part.”

“My mother is dead, you lunatic.”

“And was also one of the most powerful witches the world has ever known,” said the king. “She could have brought entire kingdoms to their knees but she chose a life with your father, who knows why. But witches sometimes pass those powers onto their offspring. Judging by your intelligence, you have the gift but it has never been cultivated. Obviously, you will never be as powerful as a witch or warlock who knows their talents from birth but any children that you and my daughter may have,” there was a glint in the king’s eyes, “they will be powerful enough to topple the world.”

“Over my dead body.”

“No,” said the king and he smirked at Rose, “only over hers.”

He snapped his fingers and Rose was dragged to her feet, her hands cuffed in front of her. The pommel of a sword dug into her back so she was forced to move forward, down stairs and along steadily darker passageways into the dungeons. She could hear John being dragged behind her, swearing and shouting her name, but his voice fell off at some point. Rose didn’t know if she should feel better or worse about that, all she could concentrate on was putting one foot in front of the other. They walked on and on for what felt like forever till a heavy cell door was pulled open and Rose was shoved inside. She blinked, trying to acclimatize to the impenetrable darkness - even the torches the soldiers had carried were gone now. There was a rough pile of straw beneath her and a bowl in the corner whose stench warned her away. The gardener had always kept rats well away but she could hear them squeaking and the scratch of their claws on the stone walls. They were as trapped as she was.

She wondered if Donna knew about their imprisonment yet or if she would be able to do anything about it. The show couldn’t go on without the bride - unless the king had a way to blackmail his own daughter. The cook and laundress might proceed with the plan if the apprentice girl hadn’t ratted them out as well but that would only lead to awkward questions about unconscious guards and a pile of unwashed ladies’ underthings in John’s bedchamber.

Idris was her last chance. Curled up on the bed of straw, Rose begged for another dream to give her a plan that would fix everything and save everyone she cared about. But when she managed to sleep it was filled with nightmares of a faceless executioner and a bloody axe raised high above her head, John and Donna dead on the floor. If Idris tried to help, Rose couldn’t tell.

At first she tried to keep track of the time but the seconds, minutes, hours - maybe even days - all blended together in the dark cell. No guards came to bring stale bread or water and Rose wondered if the king meant to leave her here to rot or if he would proceed with the public execution as threatened. He seemed too pompous not to. Rose only hoped that he would not make John and Donna watch - especially John. Together, she was sure and John and Donna could figure out a way to topple the king, if only he didn’t have to see her die. He had already lost so much - his mother and siblings, his home, his father - and she couldn’t be the blow that broke him.

Rose was too weak to resist when the guards came for her, pushing the door open with a _screech_ like a dying animal. One grasped each of her arms, still cuffed behind her, and dragged her to her feet. She was sent stumbling back down the passageway, on and on till the torchlight grew brighter and Rose could hear music coming from the great hall. It sounded a lot like the string orchestra that she had heard practicing for the past week and had driven Donna nearly insane. Two more soldiers, uniforms freshly laundered with brass buttons gleaming, pulled open the doors for Rose and her armed escort.

The entire room gasped at the sight of Rose, her face and hands cut and bruised and the fine gown which she’d borrowed from Donna, in tatters. Compared to the lords and ladies in all their finery, she was a sorry sight, but it wasn’t their judgment Rose cared about. The king stood at the top of the room, triumph written in every line of his face, every one of his multiple chins.

“Bring her forward,” he ordered, and Rose was. She hoped she could get close enough to spit in his face or stomp on his foot but a blow to the back of her knees sent her reeling and the best she could do was glare at his shiny shoes. The king laughed and his subjects followed, though a bit nervously. Rose wondered what they knew of her supposed transgression.

“I welcomed you here,” the king began, “to witness the union of my beautiful daughter, the Princess Donna, and her chosen husband, John Smith. As you may know, John came from humble beginnings but he won the heart of my daughter and I am proud to call him my son.” The lords and ladies murmured their approval. “The prince of this fine land!” The soft hum became applause. Rose glared up at the king and one of the guards lifted the pommel of his sword as if to force her into a respectful cower again. The king raised a hand to stop him, cupping Rose’s cheek with thick, calloused fingers. He smirked at her.

“This girl,” he continued, “this . . . _tramp_ sought to tear them asunder. I discovered her with the prince last night. She had nearly convinced him to run away with her under the pretense that I - his father by marriage - had some nefarious intent in arranging his marriage to the princess. As if I could want anything more than my daughter’s happiness. As if I would not like to see the honorable bloodline of Skaro passed down through my their children and their children’s children!” He paused again for a loud show of patriotism from the onlookers; a few of them threw things at Rose.

“But even this, I could forgive. This girl is young, the prince is a handsome man. _I_ am a forgiving man.” The king held a hand to his breast. “It grieved me to hear that this innocent-looking girl was an agent of the kingdom of Gallifrey’s, set on swaying the prince to their side and razing Skaro to the ground.”

The lords and ladies didn’t question what help John with his “humble beginnings” could have been in destroying Skaro. They didn’t question anything as the king piled on lie after lie, every word adding fire to the furious, well-dressed mob. When the king announced her death by beheading before the nuptials, to put the happy couple’s minds at ease, a few brawny noblemen ran forward to help the guards drag her back out of the great hall and onto the green. Rose thought one of them looked like the stuck-up nobleman from the gardens back home, but with all the faces that bobbed in and out of her vision, shouting and shaking their fists it was hard to tell. She didn’t think John and Donna were here, hoped they were planning their next escape attempt, but she couldn’t be sure of that either.

There was a raised stage waiting for them outside with a flight of steep wooden stairs leading up to it, as rickety as the old library’s shelves. It had obviously been assembled in a hurry. One of the guards tripped as he forced Rose up them and toward a stone block, level with Rose’s chin when she was forced to her knees again. Her cuffs were removed but it did her no good with the black-hooded executioner waiting at her side, gripping a sharp and shining axe in one hand, nearly as tall as he was.

“Quiet!” the king called, long fur robe billowing around him. He waved a hand over his subjects like he were casting a magic spell.

“Cut off her head!” shouted a man, wiping at his red and perspiring face with a gold-embossed handkerchief. “Give us her head!”

“Run when I say run,” whispered the man in the black mask. Through the holes in the mask, his eyes were brown, crinkled at the corners with worry.

Rose gaped at him. “John?”

“Long live the king! Long live the king!” cried a woman, hysterical tears streaking through her rouge.

“To the gate,” John continued. His lips hardly moved. “Donna’s waiting. She’ll--”

“What about you?” asked Rose.

“Destroy Gallifrey!” roared a group of young men, younger than Donna, leering up at Rose.

“When I say run,” John repeated stubbornly.

“Not without you.”

“Rose. . .”

“QUIET!” bellowed the king and silence finally settled. “They thought they could weaken us by sending a traitor into our midst . . . !” The king’s voice was louder than the whole kingdom’s, or so it seemed to Rose. A bit of her wished he would drone on and on, reveling in how everyone hung on his every word, but the rest of Rose knew she needed to act.

“Kill her!” the king ordered the executioner.

“Run!” shouted John, tearing off his mask.

John had risked his life to save her. Now, it was Rose’s turn to save him. So when Rose ran, she grabbed John’s hand that was not holding the sharp and shiny axe and tugged him with her, to the other side of the stage. There was a bit of a drop to the ground but not a fatal one. They could make it.

He didn’t look it, but John was stronger than her. He wrenched his arm out of Rose’s grasp and shielded her with his body, pushing her away from the guards and the maddened nobles that were teeming up the steps, headed by the king himself. John swung the sharp and shining axe, his only weapon, in short swoops, arms shaking with the weight of it.

“Run, Rose!” John ordered again. He didn’t notice the head guard nock a long, deadly-tipped arrow in his bow and let it fly but Rose did. By the time he saw it, it would be too late. But it wasn’t too late for Rose to save him.

Rose jumped in front of the arrow.

Then, everything disappeared. The noise of the mob and the smell of too many people packed together, noble or not, and the king’s taunting smirk. It felt like being back in the dungeon, without the rats or scratchy hay. Here, there was just nothing. The rose wondered if this was death.

“Not yet,” said a voice and the rose recognized it as Idris. The nothingness that surrounded them both grew lighter when she appeared. It gave the rose hope but she was still confused.

“What do you mean not yet?” asked the rose. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not human anymore. I’m--”

“You are still Rose,” said Idris firmly. “You are still the woman who made my husband and son so happy. And they made you happy in return. You sacrificed yourself for John.”

“He was going to do the same for me,” said the rose. At least her flower form couldn’t blush. “I couldn’t let him. I - I . . .”

Idris smiled encouragingly.

“I love him,” the rose admitted softly. “I _love_ him,” she said more loudly. “Please let me go back! I know I should have told him before . . . Please. I can’t leave him!”

“That is not up to me, Rose,” said Idris.

“Why?” The rose’s heart constricted in sudden terror. “He’s not dead, is he?” How could she have been so stupid? She should have done as John had told her and maybe she could have convinced Donna to help. Now it was too late . . .

“No,” Idris told her, “he’s not dead. He’s mourning you, Rose. He’s harnessed my magic and it’s . . .” She couldn’t finish her sentence.

“But he doesn’t need to!” cried the rose. “You said I wasn’t dead - I want to go back to him! Please! Why won’t you let me?”

“I’m not the one that turned you back into a rose, Rose,” said Idris. “That was your decision. Returning to John and Donna has to be your decision as well.”

“It _is_ my decision!” Tears spilled down the rose’s petals and dripped down into the bright nothingness.

“It isn’t,” said Idris. “In your mind, you are still a rose, trapped in that garden.”

“I’m not! I’m _not_!”

“Then _prove_ it,” Idris hissed. “Tell me how my son could possibly fall in love with you. Tell me what was worth my using my powers, not just once for you, but twice now. What makes you so special?”

Idris had never talked to her this way before. It reminded the rose of the king who always talked to everyone, even his own family, as if they weren’t worthy of his attention. Instead of upsetting her, it just made the rose angry.

“I’ll tell you what!” she snapped. “You think John was the only one with a tough life? I was ripped away from my home, from my family and friends and your husband who definitely thought I was something special thanks very much, and thrown into this crazy adventure before I could even get my bearings! Did I complain? No! I did my best to help these two strangers I just met because _you_ asked me to and now they’re the best friends I have! So I wouldn’t mind a bit of gratitude!”

Idris kissed Rose’s flushed cheek. “Thank you.”

Rose didn’t get a chance to say “You’re welcome” because she was disappearing, or Idris was, her blue dress and dark hair turning into the blue sky and black smoke drifting through it. The platform that had held where the executioner’s block used to be had been lit on fire and Rose had been moved safely away from it. The green lawn was now brown and singed, acting as a battlefield for angry townspeople and disheveled noblemen, the few remaining king’s guards and the loyal troops that Donna must have rallied. The princess herself rode in on a huge white stallion, the train of her wedding dress spilling over the sides of the saddle, waving a sword and calling encouragement to her troops.

“My father is dead!” Donna announced to the battlefield. “The king is dead! Best surrender now, you numpties!”

John was the only one missing. Rose climbed unsteadily to her feet and staggered out onto the battlefield, right in the path of Donna and her steed. The horse reared up on its’ hind legs and Rose had to duck out of the way fast.

“Whoa,” Donna soothed. “Whoa, there. Oi, what do you think you’re doing, you-- Rose!” Donna leapt down off the horse and into Rose, wrapping her arms tightly around her and burying them both in layers of tulle and lace.

“Rose, I thought you were dead!” Donna wiped at her eyes with one trailing sleeve. “I _knew_ you were dead! You weren’t breathing! John and I . . .”

“Where is John?” asked Rose.

“He’s - he went mad or something,” said Donna. “That fire? That was him. I - I don’t know . . . It was just - your body, and he . . . but how did you survive, Rose?”

“I’ll explain later,” said Rose. “I just need to see John. Please, Donna, will you take me to him?”

With only the slightest hesitation, Donna agreed. Back into the palace they went and, for the second time, Rose was led back down into the dungeons.

“Is he a prisoner?”

“No,” said Donna quickly. “I don’t think he wanted to hurt anyone, not even my father. I think it was an accident. It really scared everyone, though. I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.” She stopped in front of a plain black door and knocked on it.

“Yes?” called a guard.

“It’s me,” said Donna. “Ask John if I can come in. Tell him I’ve brought a friend.”

The guard didn’t answer for a second, then pushed the door open a crack, enough for Donna and Rose to squeeze through. Rose gasped at what she saw on the other side. John was hunched over in the corner, head buried in his knees and wrists cuffed in front of him. He was shaking from the ends of his singed, messy brown hair to the tips of his toes.

“John?” said Rose softly but he didn’t hear her, just kept trembling. John’s fingers clenched and unclenched; sometimes, it looked like little sparks danced between them, lighting up the dark dungeon.

“I told you to take those off!” Donna snapped. “Does he look like a threat? What good is it being queen if people don’t _listen_ to me?”

The guard who had opened the door nodded at the two flanking John. One of them bent down to unlock the handcuffs and tucked them into his pocket. The only difference was that John’s hands lifted to his hair that sparkled with its own little lights and grew brighter and brighter as John’s breathing grew faster.

“It’s happening again,” said the right guard nervously.

“That’s why we didn’t take them off _before_ ,” said the left guard rudely to Donna. “Your Majesty,” he added.

“John,” said Rose again. The guard warned her not to  get too close but Rose ignored him. John was her friend. He was the man she loved and who loved her back. He wouldn’t hurt her. She needed to believe he wouldn’t hurt her. “John, I’m here.”

“Miss, I wouldn’t . . .” said the guard on the right. Rose ignored him, too. She touched the top of John’s head with one hand, the little sparks of light tickled her palm.

John started at her touch John’s eyes blazed the same golden color. They looked just like Idris’s. Rose thought it must be magic.

“Rose,” he said hoarsely.

“Hello,” said Rose.

“No, you can’t be--” John shook his head back and forth, scooting backwards until he hit the wall. “I - I saw you die. Donna, tell her I saw her die.”

“Doctor, it is her,” Donna tried her best to reassure him. “It is.” _Doctor_ was John’s nickname because he was so logical but he was beyond comprehending anything resembling that now. He believed everything had been taken from him: his mother and siblings, his father, and now Rose. No one else had ever come back for him, why should Rose, when all the evidence told him otherwise. He had seen her take an arrow in the heart for him, had seen her stop breathing. Rose would have to prove to him who she was, just like she had proved it to Idris.

“It’s me, John,” said Rose. “I promise it’s me. I came back. Your mother - I saw your mother . . . she helped me come back here, to you. I couldn’t leave you - please . . .”

“My mother?”

“That’s right.” Rose nodded. “Idris. Remember, I told you about her the first day we met? Donna introduced me to you in the library and you gave me a tour of the grounds. You gave me a flower from the gardens, an iris, and I tucked it behind me ear. When you asked who I was working for and I said it was your mother. I told you how she came to me in a dream, remember? I told you how she said you deserved to be happy.”

John nodded.

“Now you can be. So can I,” said Rose. Her hands were clammy again but she felt less like she was going to vomit and more like she wanted to kiss the lips that were leaning closer and closer to hers. “I love you, John. I want to save the world with you. I want us to be happy together.”

John kissed her and Rose wondered if those little magic sparks were on his lips, too because they exploded on her tongue and behind her eyes and there was a buzzing in her ears.

“I love you, too, Rose,” John murmured against her lips and Rose deepened the kiss. They might have gone on kissing forever if the head guard hadn’t cleared his throat, looking tactfully at the ceiling.

“There are bedrooms upstairs if you would prefer,” the head guard offered. “That is, if you don’t mind, Your Majesty. I know this is your fiance . . .” The left guard snickered behind his hand and Donna glared at all of them.

“Oh, shut up all of you,” said the new queen. “As my first royal decree, I declare John’s and my betrothal null and void and give my blessing to John and Rose, may you have many future years of happiness and snogging. The entire palace will start planning a wedding in their honor,” she ordered the head guard. “Spread the word.”

Word spread more quickly than Rose, John, or even Donna - the queen of gossip - could have anticipated. Without the king’s spies around every corner and the old queen a shadow of her former ferocious self, Rose had never seen the servants so happy. The seamstresses chatted happily with the laundresses and the maids flirted with the pages. The girl with the bad cough who John had helped even stopped by the castle to thank John, then busied herself with helping her mother, the cook, prepare the banana wedding cake that John had requested. He left all the other preparations up to his fiancee and the new queen.

Donna hadn’t officially been crowned queen yet but the townspeople knew of her bravery on the battlefield the day of her and John’s almost-wedding and Rose’s almost-execution. The public already loved their new queen and the nobles, Donna promised, would learn to. She did still have a lot to learn but had a group of wise advisors to offer her advice, some from the king’s term and some who John and Rose helped her handpick.

Donna was also in talks with Jack, the prince of Gallifrey and John’s childhood friend, for establishing an alliance between their two countries instead of the animosity that Donna’s father had fostered. It also helped that Jack had grown up to be very handsome. She insisted on holding off the wedding until Jack could make the trip across the sea. Neither Rose or John minded, they were just happy being together, but John didn’t miss the opportunity to tease Donna mercilessly about her crush.

“So he can walk Rose down the aisle,” Donna insisted time and time again. “She doesn’t have a father or brother around to do it and she was a citizen of Gallifrey before she came here. It’s traditional.”

“That’s alright, Donna, I really don’t mind,” said Rose, hiding a smile behind her hand.

“It’s _traditional_ , Rose,” Donna repeated.

“Well, I’m from Gallifrey, too,” John pointed out. “Should Prince Jack walk me down the aisle, Donna? Shall we hold hands and skip?”

“No,” said Donna.

In the end, no one held hands or skipped down the aisle. A month from the day of Donna’s pronouncement, Rose walked arm-in-arm with Prince Jack, and promised to love, honor, and cherish John as long as they both would live. She held a bouquet of roses (who congratulated her many times over) and wore the red dress that Idris had given her the first day she met John. Donna had tossed her wedding dress in with the burning wooden stage. She spotted a few disapproving expressions in the assemblage of lords and ladies - many of whom had wanted her headless a month ago - but they _aww_ -ed at all the right moments and gave Rose and John expensive and altogether useless gifts that they passed along to Donna and their other friends in the palace.

If Donna could live with their frippery for the many years she would rule, Rose reminded John, then they could put up with it for one day.

“You think she will?” John laughed. “I won’t be surprised if her next order of business is to ban all tacky vases. How many of those did we get?”

Donna had a surprise wedding gift for them, and the best one of all - a boat that she had had engraved with the name _Rose’s Doctor_.

“So all of your patients know who you really belong to,” she told John, winking at Rose.

Rose had never been happier, married to John and best friends with Donna but she and John both knew they would have to leave sooner rather than later. It was inevitable that they would get bored here. Sumptuous meals and a refurbished library courtesy of Donna’s fourth royal decree, a palace-full of servants and thick stone walls could be just as much a prison as a barred cell, a despotic king, or a garden gate. They had both found that out the hard way. Finally, came the day they had to go. Donna hugged them both and made them both promise to write.

“At least three times a week,” Donna ordered. “And remember the code, if you think they may be reading your mail . . .”

“We know, Donna,” said Rose.

“If I don’t hear from you for a week, I’m sending troops out to the last place I heard from you. I know you’ll write, Rose. That’s a warning for you, Doctor.”

“ _Donna_ . . .” John rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious.” She poked him in the chest.

Together, Rose and John set off on their new boat, loaded down with supplies that Donna and Jack had had snuck on board, including a few very ugly vases embossed with the crest of Skaro which they would throw overboard when they were well out at sea. John and Rose were young to be setting off on their own, and they didn’t know much. They didn’t have a table of advisors to tell them where to go next or where the wind would take them or what they would run into on the way. They didn’t know what new friends and enemies they would make. But they did know one thing for certain: that they would live happily ever after.


End file.
